


To Have and to Hold

by WretchedArtifact



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Career Ending Injuries, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24176824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WretchedArtifact/pseuds/WretchedArtifact
Summary: For over a year, Victor has been visualizing the medal ceremony at the Olympics in Pyeongchang. It's always him and Yuuri, side-by-side on the podium, one of them slightly higher than the other. Sometimes he imagines himself in the center spot; sometimes, as Yuuri's skills grow even sharper, he uneasily imagines himself being bumped off to the side.But not once does he imagine that Yuuri could be standing up there without him.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 7
Kudos: 95
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	To Have and to Hold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chrome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/gifts).



> Written for [Hurt/Comfort Exchange 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/hurtcomfortex2020).

Victor performed the last quad flip of his competitive career at the Olympics in Pyeongchang. Four full rotations, beautiful height, the symbolic capper on the last free skate he ever planned on performing competitively.

He didn’t land it.

Instead he felt an unreal tear of pain in his right hip, and then he was down on the ice, as heavy as a bag of rocks. The pain was so intense and immediate that his mind swam through it, confused, lost. He had to get up—continue his program—so why couldn’t he move? His instincts, honed over two and a half decades, were telling him _pick yourself up and keep going._ But his body wasn’t listening. The line of connection between his willpower and his body’s ability had suddenly snapped.

His free skate music cut out. There were shouts in the crowd—his dazed mind couldn’t perceive what they were saying—and then figures were next to him on the ice. Medics. One of them said something to Victor, and Victor tried to parse her words, but the waves of pain flooding through him made it impossible to put the syllables together in his mind. Hands touched him, and the pain suddenly spiked, and he _felt_ the sound that tore from his throat more than he heard it.

Then new figures appeared in his field of vision. Yakov, his broad face ashen, the lines of irritation that usually creased his face gone. Yuuri, his beautiful face as pale as the ice, the blue and gold sequins on his free skate costume glittering in Victor’s lower field of vision. The sight of Yuuri put a thought in Victor’s head that was concrete enough for him to hold onto:

_Oh, thank God he skated before me. _

People were speaking to him: he was sure he heard _Victor_ and _Vitya_ and _Mr. Nikiforov_ , the words pressing up against his brain without any voices attached to them. He opened his mouth, wanting to say _it_ _’s okay_ , wanting to tell Yuuri _this means you won,_ but all the muscles in his torso were braced so tightly against the pain that no sound came out.

Then darkness started to flower on the edges of his eyesight. He tried to blink it away—he had _things_ to do, responsibilities as Yuuri’s coach, press and logistics to consider—but blinking didn’t touch it. It felt like the sheet of ice underneath him was slowly pitching sideways. He was slipping down it at an unnatural angle, rushing headlong into darkness.

Then he was gone.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, he was somewhere else. His hip still hurt, but it was a dull, buzzing sort of hurt, the kind that he associated with a painkiller just on the edge of wearing off. He saw white walls, a doorway covered by a curtain, medical equipment. When he opened his mouth, his voice came out strange and raspy: “Yuuri?”

There was a shifting sound to his side, and Victor creakily turned his head to see not Yuuri, but Yakov, sitting in a chair at the side of Victor’s hospital bed. “Vitya,” Yakov said, his gruff voice unusually gentle. “How are you feeling?”

“Not...great,” Victor croaked.

Yakov got up and opened the curtain covering the doorway, speaking to someone outside. When he returned, he pulled his chair closer to Victor’s bed. “We’ll have someone in here to see you soon,” Yakov said.

He reached out and put his hand over Victor’s. Yakov was rarely so calm and reassuring in everyday life, and Victor felt a low coldness start to form in the pit of his stomach. “How bad is it?” Victor asked.

“It’s not your spine, and you didn’t hit your head, so get that look off your face,” Yakov said. The hint of brusqueness in his tone reassured Victor more than the squeeze of his hand. “But they still need to image your hip and thigh. I assume we’re looking at surgery.”

Victor wasn’t a stranger to surgery—he’d had two over the course of his competitive career—but the thought of having surgery _now_ made his spirits sink even lower. Surgery meant months of frustrating rehabilitation, and now was exactly the wrong time for something like that to be eating up Victor’s life. Yuuri had just won an Olympic gold medal, and his life was about to turn into a whirlwind circus of interviews and sponsorship offers. Victor needed to be there to help him through it. “Where’s Yuuri?” Victor asked.

Yakov’s expression took on an odd, guilty cast. “He’s been with you since they took you off the ice,” Yakov said. “But I sent him away about twenty minutes ago. They wouldn’t push back the medal ceremony, and I told him you would want him to go.”

The coldness in the pit of Victor’s stomach slipped like ice up his spine. For over a year, Victor had been visualizing what this medal ceremony would look like: him and Yuuri standing side-by-side on the Olympic podium, one of them slightly higher than the other. After a week of strong practices, Victor tended to imagine himself in the center spot; after Yuuri started landing the quad Lutz consistently, Victor had to face the very real possibility that he’d be bumped off to the side. The base scores of their programs were virtually identical; if Victor had landed his quad flip, it would’ve been a nail-biter to see which of them had squeaked into first place.

And now Victor hadn’t made the podium at all. Now Yuuri was at the ceremony, alone, and Victor wasn’t even there to watch him receive the most hard-fought medal of his career.

He pressed his lips together tightly. A heaviness was starting to build up behind his eyes. “I’m sorry, Vitya,” Yakov said, and now there was guilt in his voice, too. “He fought with me about going. He wanted to be here when you woke up. But I tried to think of what you would tell him, and I thought you would tell him to go.”

“No, of course he had to go!” Victor said. “But I’m _missing_ it. Has it—?” He found himself looking around the room for a clock. “Has it already happened? Is there time for us to get the livestream up to watch it?”

The two of them struggled with their phones for several minutes before Yakov was finally able to connect to the stream. There was a different medal ceremony already in progress—they were doing them in batches this year—and when it ended, the livestream camera switched to a wide shot of the facility. Victor scanned the small phone screen anxiously, looking for any sign of Yuuri.

And— _there._ He could just make out Yuuri and Phichit and Yurio, wearing their distinctive team jackets, waiting with the other athletes on the sidelines. It didn’t look like they were wearing medals. The camera was far enough away that Victor couldn’t make out much detail on Yuuri’s face, but he could see the stiffness in Yuuri’s posture, the ways his arms were tightly folded across his chest. 

Victor had no idea how soon their medal ceremony was, but he didn’t care: with fumbling fingers he dialed Yuuri’s number on his own cell phone. He watched Yakov’s phone screen as he did it, and it turned out the livestream had a slight delay, because he heard the line click open a few seconds before the image of Yuuri gave a start and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“Vitya?” Yuuri said in Victor’s ear.

Just hearing his voice made the heaviness behind Victor’s eyes surge forward. “Hi, Yuuri,” he said, tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks.

“Oh, _Vitya_ ,” Yuuri said. “I’m so sorry I’m not there. I wanted to be there when you woke up, but—”

There was clear self-recrimination in his tone. “No, you’re exactly where you should be,” Victor said, wiping his eyes. “Yakov and I have the livestream up, I can see you off to the side. They haven’t held your ceremony yet, have they?”

“No, we’re after the next one,” Yuuri said. “How are you feeling?”

The dull, buzzing pain was growing a little worse with each passing minute, but Yuuri didn’t need to hear that. Victor was still Yuuri’s coach, and getting Yuuri through difficult situations was part of his job. “I’m fine,” Victor said, trying to sound as calm and ordinary as he usually did. “The painkillers are doing their job. I can see Yurio and Phichit on the livestream, too—how are they, are they excited?”

Victor had been the last to skate, and without him on the podium, Phichit would’ve come in second, and Yurio would’ve come in third. “Everyone’s pretty shaken up after what happened,” Yuuri said. “And I know Yurio’s not happy that he would’ve missed the podium if you hadn’t...” He didn’t finish the thought. “But everyone’s so excited for Phichit back in Thailand. People won’t stop calling him. I don’t think he’s been off his phone for a minute since they announced the results.”

The mental image brought a small, involuntary smile to Victor’s lips, and he hitched the smile higher on purpose, hoping Yuuri would hear it in his voice. “Good!” Victor said, as firmly and cheerfully as he could. “He deserves to celebrate. _You_ deserve to celebrate, Yuuri, you did such an amazing—”

_“Vitya,”_ Yuuri said plaintively. The sound of it broke the scaffold underneath Victor’s smile. “I can’t celebrate. How can I celebrate?”

Victor closed his eyes for a moment. He wasn’t doing this right: he was too tired and muddled to figure out what he could say to make things better. “I know,” Victor said. “I know this isn’t what we wanted, Yuuri. But—this is your moment. You’re only going to experience it once, and I want you to enjoy it. You did so much work to get here.”

“ _We_ did so much work to get here,” Yuuri said. “ _You_ did so much work to get me here. How could I enjoy it without you?”

On Yakov’s phone screen, Victor could see Yuuri’s distressed posture: his phone clutched to his ear, one forearm braced hard against his stomach. Victor wished he could reach through the screen and touch him. They understood each other so much better through touch, sometimes. “I know,” Victor repeated, a little helplessly. “But...”

Victor’s hand was unconsciously clenched into a fist in his lap, and just then he noticed the smooth curve of his engagement ring, the way it was pressed so tightly against his other fingers. Victor unfolded his hand and looked at the gold band, its polished shine only slightly muted by the sickly hospital lights. “But you’re _not_ doing this without me, Yuuri,” Victor said, his voice gathering a little more strength. “What do I always say, when we have to be apart? I’m always with you in spirit.”

He saw Yuuri unfold his arm and look down at the ring on his hand, too. It gave Victor a surge of warm feeling. “Exactly,” Victor said. “Even if I’m not standing on the podium next to you, you’re still bringing me up there with you. You’re always carrying a piece of me, right?”

Yuuri was quiet for a moment. Then he looked up, craning his neck and glancing around the room. “Where are you?” he asked.

It took Victor a second to realize he was asking which livestream camera was currently on him. “Up and to your left,” he said.

Yuuri scanned the room until he found it. He turned to face it head-on, so Victor could see the tiny, distinct shape of his features. “I love you, Vitya,” Yuuri said.

It took a few seconds for the livestream to catch up, for Victor to see the shape of those words on Yuuri’s lips. A few fresh tears fell from his eyes. “I love you too,” Victor said.

“And I wouldn’t have made it here if it weren’t for you,” Yuuri said. “So please be up there with me. Okay?”

“I will,” Victor said. “I promise.”

Yuuri lifted his hand and kissed the gold band on his finger. Victor brought his own hand up, pressing the smooth metal against his lips. Even if Yuuri couldn’t see him doing it, Victor was positive he knew.

On the screen, there was a sudden increase in the bustling among the presenters. Victor could see the next set of medalists being herded into place. “Yuuri, I want you to promise me something,” Victor said, a low urgency in his tone. “Promise me that when you’re up there, you’re thinking about _everything_ , not just what happened today. Promise me you’ll be thinking about all the work you did to get there, and all the people who are watching you and feeling so happy and proud. I know you have fans who have been waiting to see you up there for years. Remember them too, okay?”

He heard what sounded suspiciously like a sniffle. “Okay,” Yuuri said. “I promise.”

“And don’t forget to kiss your medal!” Victor said. “I did it at my first Olympics, and if you do it too, that’ll make it a family tradition. Our kids can do it too, if we decide to have kids.”

Now he heard what sounded like a watery laugh. “Oh, wow,” Yuuri said.

Just then, the livestream camera abruptly switched back to a shot of the main podium. Victor saw the lighting shift and the presenters move into place. There was a muffled sound on the other end of the line. “Vitya, we’re up next,” Yuuri said after a moment. “They’re asking for us to get ready.”

“Okay,” Victor said. “Go, go! I love you.”

“I love you too,” Yuuri said.

When Victor hung up, he tipped his head back and scrubbed at his streaming eyes with one hand. Yakov leaned over and pulled a few tissues out of a dispenser on the nearby counter. When he handed them over, he said gruffly, “That was good coaching, Vitya.”

“Oh no,” Victor said, dabbing at his eyes. “You never say I coach well. Why are you being so nice? Did they tell you I was dying?”

Yakov grumbled something under his breath, but he still put his hand back over Victor’s.

* * *

Thinking back, Victor couldn’t actually remember much about his first Olympic medal ceremony. He had been so dazzled by his win that when he looked at pictures of himself on the podium afterward, he couldn’t remember what the view had looked like from the opposite angle. He remembered his gold from Sochi better, because at that point winning was no longer a novelty—he had stepped up onto the center of the podium feeling little more than a sense of relief. After he’d injured his knee and missed the Vancouver Games, people had said he would probably never make the Olympic podium again, and Sochi was the satisfying proof that they were wrong. Pyeongchang was supposed to be his last laugh, his swan song.

So it was bittersweet to watch the ceremony on Yakov’s tiny phone screen, all the pomp and ceremony miniaturized and tinny-sounding. He and Yakov watched as Yurio accepted his bronze with a conflicted look on his face, as Phichit accepted his silver with a tearful grin. And when Yuuri stepped onto the center riser, his eyes red-rimmed but his jaw firmly set, the sight of him sent an ache through Victor that reached down to his core. If Victor had won a silver to Yuuri’s gold, he would’ve been disappointed—he could admit that to himself—but his pride in both of their accomplishments would’ve carried him through it without a problem. Yuuri’s skating had become so strong and expressive and well-rounded this year that there could be no shame in losing to him.

But Victor hadn’t lost to Yuuri. He had lost to time, and age, and pride. He had pushed his body do incredibly difficult things, and his body had done them.

Until it couldn’t anymore.

The presenter placed the gold medal around Yuuri’s neck. The camera switched to a close-up just in time to catch a few tears slipping down Yuuri’s face, and the sight of them immediately sent Victor back to tears, too. “Look at him,” Victor said, accepting the new parcel of tissues Yakov passed along. “I think he’s okay. He seems okay, doesn’t he?”

The crowd was cheering for Yuuri, wild and loud, and Victor saw Yuuri’s lips flutter for a moment into a tentative smile. He lifted his medal up and touched it to his lips—he did it exactly the way Victor always did, right down to the same small tilt of his head—and then he settled it back on his chest and brought his loosely closed fist to his lips. Yuuri shut his eyes and kissed the gold ring on his finger. Victor’s shoulders gave an involuntary hitch as he lifted his own hand, closing his eyes and kissing the matching band.

It wasn’t the same thing as being there. It couldn’t be.

But it was okay. It was still a moment to celebrate.

* * *

When the ceremony was over, Victor was wheeled down the blank hospital halls to have his hip and thigh imaged. His consultation with the doctor came a little after that, and by then his pain levels were spiking, so a nurse gave him a fresh dose of painkiller. By the time it kicked in, Victor could barely keep his eyes open.

He fell asleep again: not a deep sleep, but a painless one. He bobbed along in its current for what felt like a long time, until something snagged on his consciousness and started drawing him back out. It wasn’t pain that was guiding him, or the sound of someone’s voice, but a faint, familiar, persistent scent. The scent of...hair gel? Victor opened his eyes, confused.

There was a dark lump in his peripheral vision. He tilted his head slightly and saw Yuuri, sitting in Yakov’s former chair. The chair had been dragged as close to Victor’s hospital bed as it could get, and Yuuri was leaning over the low metal bar, lying with his head tucked right next to Victor’s on the starched hospital pillow.

Victor leaned in, feeling a twinge of pain in his stiff neck, and kissed Yuuri’s hair. Victor had combed the gel into Yuuri’s hair that morning, and while it hadn’t invoked any kind of sentimentality in him then, it was so familiar and comforting now that he buried his nose in it and inhaled. “Yuuri?” Victor whispered.

Yuuri stirred and tilted his face up on the pillow. The crease of the pillowcase was faintly imprinted on his cheek, and his eyes looked sleepy, and the sight of him was such a relief that Victor kissed the only thing his lips could reach: the very tip of Yuuri’s nose. “Vitya,” Yuuri said, a soft smile lighting up his face. He shifted, one hand coming up to cup Victor’s face as he leaned in to give him a proper kiss.

Both of their mouths tasted a little sour. “Oh, you really were asleep!” Victor said. He kissed Yuuri again, uncaring. “How? That angle looks so uncomfortable.”

“I was tired,” Yuuri said, stroking the side of Victor’s face. “It’s been a very long day.”

Victor’s mind still felt a little soft around the edges. The painkillers were holding fast, and the feeling of Yuuri’s thumb moving gently against his cheek was so nice that he just closed his eyes and enjoyed it for a while. “Did you talk to Yakov when you got here?” he eventually asked.

“Yes,” Yuuri said. “He told me the doctor was optimistic. Surgery and physical therapy, but you shouldn’t lose any mobility when it’s done.”

“Oh, Yakov said it nicely to you,” Victor said. “You know what he said to me?” He put on his best approximation of Yakov’s voice. “ _‘It’s surgery and physical therapy, you’ve done it a thousand times, I know you’ll be back on the ice bothering people in no time.’_ ”

Yuuri chuckled softly. “Poor Vitya.”

“No, I like Yakov better when he’s brusque,” Victor said. “It means things are okay.”

There was something else the doctor had said, but Victor let himself have another minute of Yuuri’s warm closeness first, leaning his cheek into Yuuri’s caressing hand. When he finally managed to pull the words up to his mouth, they came out softer than he meant them to. “The doctor said it’s probably the end of my quad-jumping days, though.”

He heard the slight hitch of Yuuri’s breath, and then Yuuri leaned in, his lips pressing soft and warm against Victor’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” Yuuri whispered.

Victor swallowed against the little lump rising in his throat. “And you know what Yakov said when he heard that?”

“Oh no,” Yuuri said.

“‘ _You_ _’re twenty-nine, it was ridiculous of you to be doing so many quads in the first place, did you really think you’d keep jumping them into your thirties?’”_

Victor felt the gentle huff of Yuuri’s laughter against his cheek. “Did you tell him ‘yes’?” Yuuri asked.

“No,” Victor said. “But I thought it.”

Yuuri pulled back a little, and now the smile on his face was soft with sympathy. Victor felt the lump rise in his throat again, prodding at his sinuses more insistently. “I did think it,” Victor admitted. “I thought I would know when I was losing my ability to jump. I thought they’d fade away, not...”

“Blink out?”

Victor nodded. Yuuri’s thumb stroked gently underneath Victor’s eye, where the first few tears were starting to drop from his eyelashes. “I know I should be glad my body held out as long as it did,” Victor said. “But—”

“Vitya,” Yuuri said softly. “You don’t have to be glad about anything. I know how much you wanted to win today. It’s okay if you’re upset.”

They were simple words, and nothing Victor didn’t already know, but they broke a dam somewhere deep inside him. He felt his shoulders hitch with a soft, involuntary sob as the tears started to flood from his eyes even faster. Because he _had_ wanted it: to go out on a high note, to end his career with a triumphantly penned full stop. He had known for years that some people didn’t get to choose, that some people pressed their luck until their bodies made the decision for them. But he hadn’t pictured it happening to him. It was foolish of him, but he hadn’t.

It felt strange to cry sitting half-elevated in a hospital bed, his face tilted up in the air with nowhere to hide. But as soon as Victor’s shoulders started to shake, Yuuri leaned fully half of his body over the metal bar of the bed and drew Victor into a slow, careful hug. Victor pressed his wet face against Yuuri’s shoulder and held it there, soaking the fabric, one arm wrapped tight around Yuuri’s waist. He cried longer and harder than he had in a long time, until his nose was stuffed up and his chest felt curiously light and hollow. It took several minutes after that before the tears finally started to slow, until he was able to lay his head back down on the pillow and accept the tissues Yuuri gave him. “Sorry,” he whispered, blowing his nose.

“Don’t be,” Yuuri said, rubbing Victor’s shoulder. “Crying always makes me feel better, doesn’t it?”

Victor assessed himself dubiously. Did he feel better? He thought he did, actually: the curious lightness in his chest felt much better than the heavy, tearful pain that had been sitting in it before.

Then he heard a quiet buzzing sound: Yuuri’s phone was going off in his pocket. Yuuri briefly pulled away from Victor to check it, then declined the call without answering. “Who was it?” Victor asked.

“My skating federation,” Yuuri said. He leaned back in and put his head next to Victor’s on the pillow again.

Oh, of course. The whirlwind circus was about to begin. The next few weeks would be full of interviews and photoshoots, sponsorship deals and radio spots, press releases and parades. Victor was certain Hasetsu already had a celebration planned for Yuuri when he returned home. “You should call them back,” Victor said, trying to summon up his best coach voice. “I’m sure they have lot of logistics to go over with you.”

“I already told them not to call me when I left the ceremony,” Yuuri said. His head didn’t stir from Victor’s pillow. “I told them I’m only focusing on one thing right now, and that’s you.”

Victor considered arguing, but he knew there was probably no point. “Okay,” he conceded. “But tomorrow, you and I should—”

Yuuri’s hand came up to cup the side of his face again. “Vitya,” he said, tipping Victor’s head slightly so they were looking at each other. “I didn’t mean just today or tomorrow. You’re hurt. _You’re_ my focus until you get better.”

Victor sighed. “Yuuri, I’ll be okay,” he said. “I’ve been through this before.”

“I know you have,” Yuuri said. His thumb resumed its slow stroking motion against Victor’s cheek. “And I know it’s not as easy as you and Yakov are making it sound. The doctor was optimistic because your injury could’ve been worse. But getting better is still going to be hard.”

Victor could feel the cheerful lie climbing instinctively onto his tongue: that he would be fine, that he could handle anything, that Yuuri didn’t have to worry about him at all. But Yuuri’s face was too close to his for a lie like that to work. Yuuri would see through him instantly. 

So he told the truth instead. “You won,” Victor said slowly, “but there’s so much more that happens after this. People all over the world are going to be celebrating you. And I don’t want you to miss out on all of that because of me.”

Yuuri’s brow creased a little. He was quiet for a long moment, his thumb still stroking Victor’s cheek. “I did what you asked me to, you know,” Yuuri said finally. “On the podium. I tried to think about—all of it. Everything I’d done to get there.”

Victor smiled, and Yuuri’s thumb dipped down to touch the lifted edge of it. “And I remembered something I’d almost forgotten,” Yuuri said. “I remembered the first time I really knew I wanted to go to the Olympics. When it stopped being just a wish and became a real goal. It was back in 2010, before the Vancouver Olympics, when they said your knee wasn’t healed enough to skate on. When they pulled you off the Olympic team.”

Now Victor felt his own brow crease. “Really?” he asked. “Why?”

“Because I knew how badly you wanted to defend your title,” Yuuri said. “And when I tried to imagine what you must be feeling, it _crushed_ me. I didn’t know how badly I wanted to go until I tried to imagine someone telling me I couldn’t.”

Victor knew he had inspired Yuuri over the course of his career. But it never would have occurred to him that one of the lowest moments of his life could’ve inspired Yuuri, too.

“And—I’m glad that I made people proud by winning today,” Yuuri said. “But they’ve never been the reason I wanted to get here. All I’ve ever wanted, since I was thirteen years old, was to impress you. To meet you on the ice as your equal.” His lips lifted in a tremulous smile. “And I did that today. Didn’t I?”

Victor was sure he’d cried himself dry a few minutes ago, but it turned out he was wrong. He leaned in and crushed his lips against Yuuri’s. “You did,” he whispered. “And I’m so proud of you.”

“Then I got what I wanted,” Yuuri said. He kissed both of Victor’s tear-stained cheeks, one and then the other. “I don’t care about the rest of it. All I care about right now is making sure you're okay. And if the rest of the world still wants to talk to me after you’re healed, they can.”

Victor knew he should be putting up more of a fight. Yuuri’s skating federation was going to be very unhappy, and the sponsors who were interested in him right now might grow cooler over the next few weeks. But if there was one thing he knew about Yuuri Katsuki, it was that he was stubborn to a fault. Once he made up his mind, not even Victor’s opinion could sway him.

“Okay,” he said instead, and with careful deliberation he let the weight of his head come to rest in Yuuri’s cupped palm.

It had never been in Victor's nature to lean on someone. But for Yuuri's sake, he could learn.


End file.
